


Brothers

by fawatson



Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 03:22:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17113496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: Saetan cares for his children, Lucivar and Daemon.





	Brothers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vamillepudding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/gifts).



> **Request:** Daemon Sadi, Lucivar Yaslana - I’d prefer something that’s pre-canon.
> 
>  **Acknowledgements:** Many thanks to my beta-reader. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.

“Any particular orders this morning, Sir?” asked Beale. 

Saetan shook his head, “only the vain wish you could manage to give me just a few hours peace and quiet, so I can finish reading these accounts from the District Courts.”

Beale bowed and left. Saetan turned back to the stack of reports. He’d best make what he could of the time available. Beale would undoubtedly do all he could but, if today was like yesterday, he would be unlikely to have much peace and quiet, even for just the morning. 

Presently laughter and shouting sounded interrupted his train of thought. He glanced out the window to see Lucivar flying round the big oak tree in the garden, just out of reach of Daemon who had climbed up…. 

Almost Saetan opened a window to shout out; but he was pre-empted by Manny running out of the house to scold. He knew he could leave the children safely in her capable hands and turned back to his paperwork. 

He was painstakingly adding the figures sent in one ledger (there was something not quite right about those sums) when Beale returned with mid-morning coffee and nut cakes. 

“Everything all right?” he asked, all senses alerted by Beale’s deadpan expression.

“It is now, Sir,” came the reply. 

“What did they do?”

“Absolutely nothing, Sir.”

“Nothing?” 

Beale did not answer. Saetan reminded himself that discretion was sometimes the better part of valour. No, he did _not_ want to ask any further. 

“Thank you Beale; that will be all.” 

He had finished composing a scathing letter to Steward of one District Court about the state of his so-called ledgers when Luthvian stormed in. 

“You really must do something about that son of yours!” she exclaimed angrily, before she stopped abruptly. 

“Good morning to you too,” Saeten replied in pleasant tones. The temperature in the room had chilled with Luthvian’s arrival. “Is there a problem?” 

“Children need discipline, Saetan,” Luthvian chided. 

“Children need love,” he replied. 

“I love my son!” she protested. 

In truth, he knew she did; but Lucivar remained a constant reminder of deep disappointment, which prevented Luthvian from ever showing the spontaneous affection her little boy craved. 

“What happened?” he asked with determined calm. 

“He flatly refused to come for his lessons.”

“He was rude?” Temper was one thing; Lucivar was Eyrien after all and a Warlord Prince (albeit a very young one) so that was to be expected. Rudeness, however, was one thing Saetan had absolutely no tolerance for. 

“No, he would not be _found_.” Luthvian’s exasperation was palpable. “He _hid_ from me – he and that _other_ one.” 

The temperature of the room plummeted. 

“Get out,” Saetan commanded. 

“You can’t say that to me,” Luthvian protested. “I am the mother of your son!”

“Out - now!” The room rumbled with dark outrage. 

“I will _not_ be treated so!” Luthvian snarled. “By my child _or_ you. If this kind of disrespect is what he learns from being with his father I will take him away!” 

Saetan growled, a sudden gust of wind rose in the room, and the door to his study swung open with a bang. 

Beale – imperturbable Beale – stood framed by the door way for one startled second before he entered, made an impeccable bow first to the High Lord, followed by a respectful bow of just the right depth to the lady. 

“Come this way, Lady Luthvian,” he said calmly, “we have located the children now, and they are waiting for you in the school room.” 

It took Saetan several moments before he could calm himself sufficiently to turn his attention back to his work. A particularly bulky report caught his eye and he pulled it to him. Angel’s Falls was a tiny village (truly just a hamlet formed of five houses supported by two farms) at the northeast edge of the territory that looked to SaDiablo Hall. For centuries it had been under the aegis of the same yellow-jewelled Queen, her husband, who served as Consort, an older brother, who was Steward, and various and sundry relatives all of whom worked the two farms. It was the sleepiest corner of his lands. What _could_ be happening there that would warrant…Saetan flipped to the end of the papers…64 pages! Even knowing Eamon tended to ramble that seemed excessive. He settled in to read. 

The chime announcing luncheon provided a welcome interruption an hour later; he arrived at the dining hall after the rest were seated. Luthvian sat at the far end of the table, whether because it was the place reserved for the Lady of the Hall (which she was not, but felt she ought to be) or because it was the farthest away from his own seat at the head, he did not know not (and cared not either). His two boys were seated either side of Tersa, who was on his left with a visiting Queen and her Escort opposite. The Queen, a younger member of the Hourglass who deferred prettily and flatteringly to Luthvian, had arrived yesterday afternoon in a totally unnecessary trip to the Hall, ostensibly to present her Court’s annual report. Luthvian had greeted her warmly and invited her to remain for the night; Saetan had decreed one night only so they were leaving straight after the meal. 

The food was good, as always since Saetan had fired the last cook who had been more interested in sharing his bed than feeding him. Hiring Beale’s wife in her place had been an inspired decision; meals were now consistently edible. Conversation was, however, stilted. Luthvian remained in a huff; sensing tension, the visiting Queen was monosyllabic; and Tersa appeared distracted and anxious. This was not one of her good days. Only his sons appeared oblivious to the emotional undercurrents, bouncing in their chairs, pleased to be released from the schoolroom, eager to stuff food into their mouths before they went outside to play. Periodically, Tersa issued gentle reminders about manners; always children seemed able to pierce her preoccupation in a way adults could not. 

Saetan intended to retreat to his study again after the meal but after a while childish laughter drew him through the French doors and out across the patio, past the rose gardens, to a small play-fort he had ordered built near the hedge. He stayed off to one side, not wanting to disturb the children’s enjoyment. Daemon and Lucivar had formed a partnership and were defending the fort's keep. Three other lads, fought to conquer it. Us against them. Often his sons chose different sides; but today they had joined forces against the other children who lived here. None of the children had anything but basic craft, largely untrained. So the fact these two sons of his were – in all probability – destined to wear darker jewels meant nothing now. Character meant everything, which both of his sons had in abundance, though clearly the other children had their own fair share of determination and a desire to win. 

“Remind you of anyone?” Andulvar asked quietly from the deep shadow behind Saetan’s left shoulder. 

The two men’s eyes met in shared understanding. 

“They will not always play nicely together as they do now.”

“Any more than we did,” said Andulvar. 

Saetan smiled. “ _We_ never played together Prince Yaslana. You forget: we did not meet until we were grown.” 

“Nonetheless, we played,” Andulvar reminded, “the games of young men rather than children, but still the games of brothers of the heart.”

“As they are,” said Saetan, looking back out the window at his sons who were transcendent over Beale’s boy who led tow-headed twin sons of his coachman. “As I hope they always will be.” 

They watched in companionable silence as the table turned and young Beale led his team to victory and Daemon and Lucivar’s partnership degenerated into bickering over which of them let the other down. Childish squabbles were forgotten, though, when Manny fetched them all in for tea and bath-time. 

“If you can spare the energy,” Saetan ventured, “I would appreciate your counsel about a very peculiar report I’ve been sent by the Steward at Angel’s Falls.” 

The two made their way back to Saetan’s study, where a decanter of yarbarah and two crystal glasses sat on a small carved mahogany table near the fireplace. 

“I smell Hekatah’s influence,” Andulvar pronounced an hour later, tossing the report back onto Saetan’s desk in disgust. 

“As do I,” agreed Saetan, “but _why_ is a puzzle. Angel’s Falls has no wealth and has never produced any witch who bears any great power. What is it that interests Hekatah there?” 

“It’s toehold on your lands, and _anything_ that bothers you gives that bitch enjoyment,” suggested Andulvar. 

“Can it be that simple?” Saeten mused, “when Hekatah and Dorothea are involved? They are more given to convoluted plots.”

“Angel’s Falls is but half a mile from the house you settled on Luthvian,” Andulvar reminded. 

Saetan grimaced. “I thought of that; but Luthvian spends little time there, preferring the grandeur of the Hall.”

“And when Luthvian finally accepts you will not marry her? Where will she go then? And who will be waiting – for her and for her son.” 

Saetan stared at his old friend in horror. “Surely not.” 

A quiet knock interrupted, and Manny put her head round the door. “The boys have had their bath, Sir, and are ready for a story.” 

Sudden fear in his heart, Saetan took the steps two at a time, hurrying to the boys’ bedroom. He gave a sigh of relief at the sight of two little boys wearing pyjamas and milk moustaches, handing Tersa their empty glasses. 

“Which story have you chosen tonight?” he asked, as he settled himself in the large wing chair beside the double bed the boys shared, and opened a leather-bound illustrated book. 

“The one with the dragon,” Lucivar said, “that flies over the land breathing fire.” 

“The one with the dragon it is,” he agreed. 

“And then the story of the first Witch,” added Daemon. 

“ _Two_ stories…but do you _deserve_ two stories?” Saetan asked, “have you been good boys today?” 

“I’ll be good tomorrow if I get two stories tonight,” said Daemon bargained earnestly. 

Saetan suppressed a laugh. “Two stories it is then. But mind you remember to keep your word as a Warlord Prince.” 

“Pinky swear,” promised Daemon. 

“Very well then,” Saeten said solemnly, as he found the right place in the book. “Once upon a time….”

Both boys were asleep by the time Saeten finished reading the second story. He laid the book on the dresser and stood for a moment watching his sons who lay peacefully together, arms round one another. Each had his own bedroom at the Hall but never were both chambers used at the same time. Always where one son was, the other was too. Gently Saetan stroked Daemon's hair and softly he patted one of Lucivar's wings, before he crept quietly from their room, going to his own to dress for supper. 

There were no guests this evening. Tersa had retired to her cottage, so it was just two to dine. The dishes were brought in and the footman dismissed; there was no need for formal service when it was just the two of them, a decision Saetan quickly regretted. Beale had set Luthvian’s place near Saetan’s and she seemed determined to try to rekindle a romantic connection between them, nudging his feet with hers under the table, and offering him food from her fork. 

“What is it you want, Luthvian,” Saeten asked, his voice weary, moving his feet away from hers for what seemed the umpteenth time. 

She bristled. “Must I want anything?” 

“Usually,” he replied in an even neutral tone. 

“I am the mother of your son!” 

“ _One_ of the mothers of my sons.” 

“Much though I value her as my dearest friend, Tersa walks the Twisted Kingdom. _She_ cannot be your wife.” 

“I need no wife.” 

“Of course you do. Any man of your stature needs one.”

“My stature,” Saetan said sombrely, “and would that be as the owner of SaDiablo Hall or the High Lord of Hell.”

Luthvian stiffened. “If you loved me you would renounce being High Lord.”

“But I do not love you,” Saetan said quietly, “and High Lord is what I _am_ , not simply a title I can renounce.” 

“I deserve better.” 

“I give what I can, Luthvian. Don’t wish for what no woman can have.”

He looked at her, saddened when he saw the tracks of tears down her face. Moody and prickly she might be, emotionally brittle and occasionally spiteful; but there was no denying she genuinely cared for him, as much as she cared for any man.

“I need more,” she whispered, before she jumped from her chair and rushed out of the room. 

Saetan sighed, and reached for the wine carafe. He would talk to her again tomorrow. Perhaps she would be willing to listen to reason in the morning. 

But in the morning when Daemon leaped onto his bed father’s bed to wake him he was alone. And when Saetan descended the stairs he was greeted with the news that Luthvian had risen early and gone out, taking Lucivar with her. Her room was empty of her belongings. And when he sent to her house at Angel’s Falls, it was empty too.


End file.
